Cuddy's Soul
by allthingsdecent
Summary: What happened between House and Cuddy after the events of Wilson's Heart?


Cuddy drifted in and out of sleep. When she was awake, she watched House. He was only a few hours removed from what was technically a coma, but you would never know it by looking at him. He kicked his legs, clenched and unclenched his jaw, bucked a bit in the bed.

Always restless, she thought. Always fighting invisible foes.

His eyes fluttered open.

The first time he had awakened that night, House was barely conscious. Now he blinked at her, registering her presence.

"Amber?" he managed to choke out. His voice was strained, hardly more than a whisper.

She took his hand.

"She's gone, House."

"And . . . Wilson?"

"He took off. We don't know where he is."

He nodded, closed his eyes. A single tear rolled down his cheek. He squeezed her hand like he was clinging to a lifeline.

Eventually, they both fell back asleep.

Hours later, Cuddy was awakened by the sensation of someone gently touching her arm.

She looked up. It was Anita, her assistant.

She rubbed her eyes, let go of House's hand hastily, suddenly feeling self conscious.

"What?" she snapped.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Dr. Cuddy," Anita said. "They told me you were up here. I just wanted to remind you about your meeting with the Rothschilds at 11:30."

The Rothschilds were huge potential donors to the hospital. The meeting had been set up months ago. It had completely slipped her mind.

"Shit!" Cuddy said, fumbling for her Blackberry, which was in the pocket of her jacket that had been flung over the chair. "What time is it?"

"9:30," Anita said. "But I thought you might want to go home and . . . freshen up first."

Cuddy caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her clothing was rumpled, her hair was a fly-away mess, her skin was creased. She had been folded into that chair all night.

She turned to Anita, feeling sheepish. "Sorry I snapped at you. It's been a stressful couple of days."

"Nothing to apologize for," Anita said, looking at House. "Is he going to be okay?"

"_Physically_, yes. . ." Cuddy said. And she left it at that.

Cuddy stared at House for a minute—the thought of leaving his side filled her with a kind of strange dread.

"You're right," she said. "I guess I better go home and change."

#####

The meeting with the Rothschilds went well. But a tour of the hospital turned into a long lunch which turned into leisurely after-lunch drinks.

It wasn't until 7 pm that she could make her way back to House's room.

When she got there, his bed was empty, stripped of its sheets, the blankets folded neatly.

Feeling a bit frantic, Cuddy paged the attending nurse.

"Where is he?" she demanded.

"He . . . left," the nurse said.

"_Left_?"

"He said he was feeling better and he signed himself out."

"He can't sign his own release forms!"

"_You_ try telling Dr. House what to do," the nurse muttered.

Cuddy got into her car, drove to his apartment, knocked on the door.

He answered in pajama bottoms, bare feet, and a faded black concert tee.

"Is this a booty call?" he said. "Because technically you're supposed to call first. But I'll make an exception since you're already here."

She had never felt closer to him than she had last night, sitting vigil at his bedside, holding his hand.

But now it was like the old familiar walls had instantly been erected.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You never should've checked yourself out, House. It was reckless."

"I feel great," he said. "I feel refreshed and rejuvenated. It's like my brain got a trip to the spa."

"No headaches? No dizziness? No blurred vision?"

"I'm fine, mom."

She tried to read his face.

"Do you want to. . .talk?"

"There's nothing to talk about."

"No, of course not."

"Amber's dead. It sucks. End of story."

"House. . ."

"Cuddy. . ." he mimicked.

"I'm worried about you."

"I'm a big boy. I'm very good at taking care of myself. Although I can think of a few creative ways you can console me. . . most involve neither of us wearing pants."

She actually felt like she wanted to cry. Did he even remember that she had spent the night at his bedside, holding his hand? The only time he let down his guard with her was when he was half dead, sick with grief.

"Will you call me tomorrow if you need to talk?" she said finally. "Or not talk? Anything."

"Or, better still, I'll just see you at work."

"No way," Cuddy said firmly. "You almost died. You're taking the rest of the week off, House. Non negotiable."

House scowled at her.

"Fine," he said. "I have some spring cleaning to do. And by spring cleaning, I mean updating my online porn catalogue."

"So that's it?" she said.

"That's it," he said.

And he closed the door.

#####

The next night, at about 10 pm, her phone rang.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi."

"Whatchya doin'?"

"Reading a book."

"What book?"

"Water for Elephants."

"Rudyard Kipling?"

Cuddy smiled.

"No, a woman named Sara Gruen."

"Oh. . .Never heard of her."

There was a brief silence.

"What's up, House?"

"How was your day?"

"My _day_?"

"Yeah, your day. How are things at the hospital? Does my team have a case?"

"No. I have them pinch hitting all over the hospital."

"Let me guess, Taub volunteered for the Department of Gynecology. . . . Thirteen, too, come to think of it."

"They're going wherever I tell them to go."

"Ha. I hope you have Foreman cleaning bed pans."

"House. . .what's going on?"

"Nothing. Just called to say hi."

Because _that_ happened all the time.

More silence.

Finally: "Have you heard from Wilson?" he said.

Of course.

"We spoke today."

"And?"

"And he's grieving, House. He flew to Boston to be with Amber's parents."

"Oh. . .." Then, trying to keep his voice casual, he said: "Did he happen to mention me?"

In fact, Wilson had mentioned House. He had said, "I can't even look at him right now."

"No," Cuddy lied. "Sorry. We only spoke briefly."

"No big deal," House said. "Maybe I'll call him tomorrow."

"That's probably not a good idea. Give him his space. He'll come to you."

Another long silence. She thought he might've hung up.

"House?"

"I never asked her to come get me, you know."

"I know, House."

"I asked for Wilson. She came on her own. I never would've asked her to come."

"House, this wasn't your fault."

"I'm not saying it was. I'm just saying that I never asked her to come."

"Okay, you never asked her to come."

"So that's what I wanted to tell you. Goodnight, Cuddy."

"Goodnight, House."  
#####

He called again, the following evening.

"Are you watching this?" he said. "I've mesmerized by this guy's hairline. I want to do a DDx on his combover."

"I'm not watching TV. I'm doing work, House."

"What kind of work?"

"Inventory reports, if you must know."

"Sexy. . .Do you think he yells 'You're fired!' when he comes? The guy really gets off on firing people."

Cuddy chuckled.

"I don't know House. I haven't given it much thought."

"How was your day?" he asked, again. She didn't think House had ever once asked her that question before last night.

"Nothing out of the ordinary."

"What did you have for lunch?"

"A Cobb salad."

"Oh. . ."

He seemed to have run out of small talk.

"Well, I'll let you get back to your work," he said. "That inventory is not going to report itself. . .Unless you're doing inventory on robots, I guess."

"It's okay, House. I was just finishing up anyway."

She felt a bit like she was running a suicide hotline. Just keep them talking, they had said in psych class.

"I finished my book," she said.

"That elephant book?" House said.

"Was it good?"

"Great. And now they're probably going to screw it up by turning it into a bad Hollywood movie."

"Did you know that elephants poop up to 80 pounds in a single day?"

"I didn't know that House. They don't mention it in the book."

"It's true. You can look it up. Can you imagine that job at the zoo? Talk about a shitty job."

A pause.

"Heard from Wilson today?" he asked.

"No House. I don't expect to hear from him for a while. He's taking a leave of absence."

"A leave of absence?"

"Yeah…I thought that was a good idea under the circumstances."

"Huh."

She heard him sigh a bit. Then he said, "Wanna hear a hilarious story?"

"Sure," she said, reluctantly.

"This crippled guy was so drunk he left his cane behind at the bar. Can you imagine that? A crippled guy forgetting his cane?"

Cuddy had a bad feeling this story wasn't going to end well.

"So the do-gooder young woman who went to pick him up at the bar had to follow him on the bus, right? To give him his cane. Cause a guy can't walk without his cane. But here's the kicker: If he hadn't been so blind drunk that he left his cane, she would've driven home and she'd still be alive, nursing a mild case of the flu."

Cuddy closed her eyes. She felt nauseated.

"House, don't do this to yourself."

"Do what? I was merely calling your attention to the irony of life. Crippled guy leaves his cane in a bar. Beautiful young woman is dead. Lives destroyed."

"House? Do you want me to come over? Maybe I should come over . . ."

"No. Go back to your inventory, Cuddy. I'll see you at work on Monday."

#####

That was Thursday. He didn't call on Friday, which worried her greatly. (She considered calling him, but then decided to heed her own advice: Give him his space; he'll come to you.)

On Saturday night, she was throwing a small dinner party, when there was the unmistakable sound of a cane rapping against her door.

She excused herself, answered.

He was standing unsteadily in her doorway, anchoring himself with two hands somewhat unsuccessfully with his cane.

He was quite obviously drunk.

"I was in the neighborhood," he slurred.

He peered over her shoulder, saw the dinner guests.

"I didn't know you had company," he said. "Now I'm the asshole interrupting dinner parties. . .I'll go."

And he started stumbling down her walkway _toward his_ _motorcycle_.

She grabbed his arm.

"Why don't you come in for a drink, House," she said. The best way to lure a drunk man into your home.

"Okay," he shrugged.

He followed her inside.

Her friends—two couples, the Parkers and the Wellers—looked up at him curiously.

"Everybody, this is Dr. Gregory House, a . . .colleague of mine."

"Hey," House said, giving a little wave.

"Have a seat, House."

He dragged a chair up to the table, straddled it, looked around the table.

Cuddy made him a drink—easy on the scotch, heavy on the soda. Handed it to him.

He took a sip, frowned.

"Who does a guy have to fuck to get a strong drink around here?"

Her guests were all staring at him like he was some sort of exotic creature in a zoo.

She supposed crude drunk guys with limps barging in on civilized dinner parties at 10 pm weren't exactly the norm.

"This looks cozy. How do you all know each other?" House asked.

"Lisa and I take yoga together," Sara Weller offered.

"And we've been friends since college," Nell Parker said.

"Then she introduced us and we've all became great friends," Arnie Weller said.

"Friends," House said appreciatively. "It's good to have friends. I used to have a friend. . . but then I killed his girlfriend."

He laughed loudly.

Shocked looks.

"So now I have no friends," he said, polishing off his drink with a flourish.

"Another, barkeep!" he said, slamming the drink on the table.

"House, I'm your friend," Cuddy said gently.

House addressed the table: "She's not really my friend. She's my boss. And we used to have sex."

Almost as if on cue, the entire table shot up.

"It's getting late," David Parker said.

"We really ought to get going," Arnie said.

"Was it something I said?" House said as the table cleared, and he let out a loud burp.

Cuddy got everyone's coat, ushered them out the door.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "He's going through a hard time."

"Don't think twice about, it's late anyway," Sara said.

"Is _that_ the guy you used to talk about all the time?" Nell said, glancing back at House.

Cuddy pretended she didn't hear her.

"Goodnight," she said. And closed the door on their stunned faces.

When she turned back around, House had managed to stagger his way to the bar and was beginning to pour himself more scotch.

"Why don't I make you some coffee?"

"Irish coffee?"

"Coffee coffee."

"Okay," he said. But he poured the scotch and brought it over to the couch. He flopped down, as though he could barely sustain his own weight.

Cuddy went to the kitchen, made the coffee—strong. Poured him a mug.

She sat down next to him on the couch, handed it to him.

He took a sip, put it down on the coffee table, looked at her.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," she said back.

Then he got a look on his face. She knew that look.

"You're so fucking sexy, do you know that?" he said—and he leaned in, went to kiss her.

"House," she said, gently pushing him away. "Drink your coffee."

"I don't want coffee," he said, almost falling on her. "I want you." He began kissing her neck, fondling her breasts.

"House!" she pushed him off with a little more force this time. Then she stood up, sat in the chair across from the couch.

"Stay!" she said, holding up her hand like he was a dog.

He looked at his feet. Already contrite.

"Sorry," he muttered.

She wasn't mad. Almost the opposite. The ridiculous thing was, his hot breath on her neck, his hands over her bra—it actually had turned her on. God, she was such a mess. Even pathetic desperate drunk House was appealing to her.

She focused on him.

"Talk to me, House."

"Nothing to say."

"Why are you so drunk. . .again?"

"Because alcohol is my best friend. After Vicodin, of course."

"You're not alone."

"Wilson hates me," House mumbled.

"No, he doesn't. He just needs time."

"He doesn't think my life has any value," House said, and gave an ironic laugh.

"That's ridiculous, House. Why would you even say that?"

"He knew the deep brain stimulation could kill me and he didn't care," he said, slightly defiant.

"Of course he cared," Cuddy said.

House eyed her.

"I said: 'You think I should risk my life to save hers? And he said, and I quote: Yes. . ."

He watched her absorb the news.

"He was desperate," she said quickly. "He didn't know what he was saying.

"He doesn't think I deserve to live. And I agree."

"Don't say that House," Cuddy said. "Don't ever say that again."

"Tell me one good thing I've done in my life. And if you say, 'You save lives! You're a healer!' I'm going to hurl."

"In your state, you might hurl anyway," she said, an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Good point," he said.

"House. . .saving lives is no small thing. It's actually a really big thing."

"I spread pain and misery wherever I go," he said.

"No," Cuddy said. "That's bullshit. You'd take a bullet for Wilson—you practically _did_ take a bullet for him. That's loyalty."

"Whatever."

"And when you're not being a royal pain in my ass, I trust you more than anyone I know."

He looked up.

"You do?"

"You know all my deepest secrets House. And you haven't told a soul."

"Just waiting for the right moment to blackmail you," he said.

She smiled.

"You're valuable to me," she said.

"As an employee."

"As a human being."

He nodded a bit, swallowed hard. Then he glanced at her grandfather clock. It was past midnight.

"I should probably go," he said.

"Not happening," she said. "You're crashing on the couch."

"Unfortunate choice of words," he said.

She shot him a look.

"Sorry, bad joke," he said. Then a tiny smile formed on his lips. "You don't want me to die."

"No House. I most definitely do not want you to die."

"That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in a long time."

She shook her head. Got up, went to the linen closet, found him a pillow and a sheet and a wool blanket—threw them at him.

"I'm going to bed," she said. "Can I give you a hug goodnight without having you go all Chester the Molester on me?"

"Yeah. I can probably manage that."

The hugged for a long time. Her head was buried in his neck. She breathed him in.

They parted.

"Goodnight House."

"Goodnight Cuddy."

She walked toward the bedroom. Just when she got to the doorway he said:

"Cuddy?"

"Yeah House?"

"Thanks."

"No problem. You can sober up on my couch anytime."

"Not for that. . .for everything. For being a friend. For letting me babble to you over the phone. For. . .holding my hand that night in the hospital."

So he did remember.

He was drunk now. His guard was down. Just like when he was sick. He'd pretend to forget about this tomorrow, act like it never happened. He would deflect, cover up his real feelings with a sea of sarcasm.

But they both knew the truth. That their bond was real, unbreakable. And that it would only grow from here.

"You're welcome," she said.

THE END


End file.
